two words
by belle parole
Summary: I have a strong urge to say it, right now. I'm gay. Gay, gay, gay. Gaygaygaygaygaygay./bram, and coming out to his dad (or not)


_what even. i don't know how to write in first person. someone send help._

 _for moc - diversity [gsd]_

 _904 words, by gdocs_

* * *

I can't hear a word Mom is saying. Honestly, I know that I should be paying attention, but it's the same thing year after year — be good for my father, don't do anything dangerous, go to sleep at a normal time, blah, blah, blah.

I honestly don't care. Not when I have more important things to tend to. More specifically, Jacques.

"Abraham!"

Mom's usage of my full name gets me to look up from my phone.

"Yeah?" I say. I _really_ want to look back down, but I can't risk her physically taking away my phone; that'd be awful.

"Are you listening?" she asks. Her hand is on her hip and her head is tilted, making her hair slightly tilted.

"Yeah, the usual Hotel Hannukah rules, Mom," I tell her, trying not to roll my eyes.

"Are you ready to go?" she asks. "Have all of your stuff?"

"Yeah, let me just finish this email," I tell her, raising my phone a little bit. She raises her eyebrows at it.

"Who are you emailing?" she asks. She's straining her eyes so hard, I can believe that she's trying to look at my screen through the back of my phone. Not a chance.

— _Bram_ , I type as Mom's words hit my ears. I notice my mistake right away and delete my name, typing ' _Blue_ ' instead. God, I've come so close to revealing myself so many times, it's honestly lucky that I catch myself at this point.

"No one," I tell Mom, pressing send and turning off my phone with a 'click'. I like having the audio on; it brings some sort of comfort to me.

It's a complete and utter lie, of course, because I'm not emailing _no one_.

I'm emailing Jacques. _Jacques, Jacques, Jacques_. Can I even be in love with him? That's my real question. I don't _know_ him, but there's still something there, almost tangible.

"Is it a girl?" Mom asks. There's a smile on her face that tells me that there's a _really_ stupid smile on _my_ face.

"Yup," I say, popping the 'p'. "I was just emailing a really hot girl who I'm utterly in love with."

Well, change the gender.

She raises a single eyebrow at me.

"We should go to the hotel for another Hell Hannukah," I say, raising both of my eyebrows, higher than her single eyebrow.

" _Bram_ ," she says in a warning tone.

"I mean _Hotel_ Hannukah." I give her a winning grin, before getting up and going to grab my bag.

…

"Bram!"

Dad's hug feels…

Fake.

It feels like an obligation, like it's something that he _has_ to do, just because I'm his son.

Well, PSA: I don't want to be your son, Dad.

"Dad," I force out, though, wrapping my arm around his shoulders.

"Happy Hannukah," Dad says, pulling away from me. His eyes are glittering and I have a strong urge to say _it_ , right now. _I'm gay. Gay, gay, gay. Gaygaygaygaygaygay_.

No, I'm not going to ruin everything _this_ early.

"Let's light," he offers and I nod.

Except we don't really light the Menorah. Fire and hotels don't mix. Instead, I screw in the light bulbs, one by one, in the _fake_ Menorah. So utterly fake.

So _freaking_ fake, as Jacques would probably say.

I should probably just tell Dad, already — I _told_ Jacques that I would.

"Hey, Dad?" I finally say as he finishes singing over the 'candles'. Honestly, I'm pretty sure our fake Hannukahs get more pathetic every year they happen. Dad turns to me and everything feels way too _real_.

I can't believe I'm about to do this. I can't do this.

No, wait, I _can_ do this. Everything will be fine.

I take a deep breath and I'm about to just spit it out when Dad holds up his hand. I pause.

"I have a present for you first," Dad says, turning around and searching through his stuff. He pulls out a package that looks suspiciously like a book, tossing it to me. I raise my eyebrows at it and begin to open it, biting my tongue so hard that I think I might bite a hole through my tongue.

"Thanks, Dad," I say, looking at the cover. My eyes are drawn to the author. Of course. "Casanova," I say, sucking in my cheeks.

Wow. Dad is really oblivious, isn't he? I have _never_ talked to him about girls before. And now he's buying me Casanova.

"I thought, well, you're getting older and, well…"

Oh, that's Dad. Turning into a sputtering mess while trying to talk to his very gay son about very heterosexual sex. Thanks, Dad.

He thinks I'm straight. That's just great. Any thoughts I had about coming out just flew out the window.

"Thanks, Dad," I say anyway, staring at the book. I need to suppress a laugh, I have to admit. _Casanova_. Jacques is going to love it. Looking back up at Dad, I can tell that he looks slightly _proud_ of himself.

You got it, Dad: I really wanted Casanova for Hannukah. Gee, thanks.

"What did you want to say?" he asks, looking one hundred percent interested in me now. I look back down at the cover, a simple picture of Casanova himself. What's even going through his head?

"Nothing," I tell him, biting my tongue once again.

Those two words seem like way too many words now.


End file.
